


Reunion

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Lone Wanderer Kate [2]
Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Exes, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5264069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was 3:17 on a Thursday afternoon when Sarah’s world exploded all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

It was 3:17 on a Thursday afternoon when Sarah’s world exploded all over again.

She was checking her chronometer after returning from patrol with the Pride, shaking the grit from her boots before looking up to see an old ghost.

Kate grinned, curled her lip as she said, “Hey.” Just a quick jerk of her chin.

Her dog showed more emotion, barking and wagging his tail so hard it shook his body as he danced in circles.

Sarah operated mechanically, straightened herself out and mouthed through old scripts. Invited Kate to lunch, and now they sit at a too-small table, where their knees bump if they’re not careful and Dogmeat sprawls across both their feet. The table’s scarred with old names, chiseled hearts and bored vandalism. Air thick with static, old arguments humming beneath their skin.

“Meatloaf and mash? It’s fresh,” Sarah says quickly at Kate’s disgusted twist of her tongue. “Fresh potatoes and molerat. None of that prewar crap.”

“Sure.”

Sarah heats up two servings, pours herself a cup of coffee. Makes tea the way Kate likes it-- used to like it. Two bags, a sprinkle of sugar. No milk; Kate’s lactose-intolerant. Realizes she forgot to ask Kate if she wanted tea in the first place, but not until after Sarah’s already set the mug in front of her.

Kate looks good, but different. A new scar on her knuckles, pale but turning livid as Kate warms her hands against the mug. A couple new lines on her face, and the stubble on her scalp looks like she hasn’t shaved for a couple weeks. Same hairstyle though, just two long strips of hair. Frames her cheeks like raven feathers.

They always had a connection, whether they called it fate or chemistry. Felt like soft ribbons around their wrists, like carbonation fizzing through their veins. Now it feels like a thing around their necks that binds them.

Kate talks about what she’s been up to. Investigating Point Lookout, dealing with crazed tribals and swampfolk. Digging up old bones, nightmares gnawing at her heels. Chasing darkness.

Sarah replies in kind. She’s been patrolling with the Pride, guarding the water caravans and looking for old tech. Building a new world from the rust of the old, lasers cutting swathes across the battlefield. Chasing light.

There’s a question that weighs stone-heavy on Sarah’s lips, and it cracks her teeth on the way out. “You still running around with that slave?” Like she can’t see that Kate’s only companion is Dogmeat.

“Hell no,” Kate snorts, deep-set eyes glittering. Old challenge, older wounds. Just one poke and all the blood rises. “Passed his contract to Moira. She’s more of a do-gooder than I’ll ever be. Gives her some extra muscle, especially now that the damn Guide’s getting so much attention.”

Sarah scrapes her fork across the plate, sopping up the gravy with the last of her mash. “I meant the girl.”

“Nah, took her to Hamlin’s group at the Lincoln Memorial. I’m no kind of head-doctor.” Bites her lip, worrying at a shred of skin. Leaves a spot of blood. Gleams in the stark overhead light. “I never fucked her, Sarah.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Look-- she was messed in the head. Wouldn’t be right. Just like I wouldn’t fuck Charon, even if I liked guys.” A hollow laugh, eyes empty. “Plus she looks like she might be my sister, maybe.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says at last, after the silence has stretched far too long. Like a tension wire, some effort to maintain their feeble conversation.

They threw ugly words last time. Tore each other apart, clawed at their armored shells and cracked bone beneath their teeth.

Kate scowls, pushing her plate aside. Hands clenched on the table. She always punches hard, quick to land the first hit. Good with a rifle, better with her fists. Claims it’s more personal that way. Might walk away friends after a fistfight. Might walk away dead after a gunfight. She’s all hard edges and sharp corners though, face flat except for the knife-jut of her cheekbones. For all she talks about ‘making friends’ with a fistfight, she always keeps a set of brass knuckles on her.

Sarah watches Kate’s fists. Not expecting a fight, but easier than watching her face.

“That’s _not_ why I left and you know it!” Kate snaps, animal growl and rabid froth beneath the words.

Endless cycles and rotations, gears clicking between them. Elliptical as always, Kate slicing a brutal oblique to the apology she’s truly demanding.

“I have obligations to the Brotherhood.” Even to Sarah the words sound cold, an oil-slick chill coating the worn speech.

Kate bangs her fist against the table, makes the silverware jump. Coffee spatters over the lip of Sarah’s mug. “I never asked you to give up the Brotherhood! I asked you to carve some space for just ‘Sarah,’ not ‘Paladin Lyons.’”

‘Coin-operated girl,’ Kate used to call her. Affectionately, at first. Pretty robot dressed up in power armor. Now it tastes like dead iron, choked steel. Quarters and worn half-dollars rolling down her tongue, clinking in her gullet. Like Kate expected her to bleed copper wire and electricity.

“‘Sarah’ _is_ ‘Paladin Lyons,’” Sarah says, straightening out her knife and fork. Neatly in position at eight and four, replicated from a faded etiquette magazine.

“‘Sarah’ was my girlfriend. ‘Paladin Lyons’ was jumping back any time we heard footsteps coming down the hall.” Kate stabs her meatloaf with her fork, drips gravy as she chews. “It’s not fraternizing if I’m not Brotherhood.”

Sarah has to grip the table to resist wiping Kate’s chin. Excuses rise up, like a compression spring from her gut. Her position, her responsibilities. Her father.

Excuses aren’t apologies.

Inhale. Exhale. Work the lungs like a bellows, shape breath to what needs be said. “I’m sorry.”

Kate blots gravy with the back of her wrist. Gives a crooked smile, jagged from all their broken forevers.

“Well, that’s a start.”

 


End file.
